


every tuesday that there is

by tekhnicolor



Series: Shorts On Larry and Love [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Slow Dancing, i wanted to write something with them slow dancing to joni mitchell, so ta-da :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 19:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5714254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekhnicolor/pseuds/tekhnicolor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry gets back to the hotel one night at the end of a tour and Louis feels like dancing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every tuesday that there is

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Larry (though I sometimes wish I do - I'm kidding, I'm kidding ;P), and all of this is pure, shameless fiction (maybe ;)).

The best part about touring is coming home.

And he doesn’t mean home like Holmes Chapel, even though that part is always amazing too—seeing his mum, his sister, Robin. He loves them all with every fiber of his being, and going home to them is probably his second favorite thing in the world.

But Louis. Louis is his _favorite._

And the best part about touring is just falling into him at the end of the day.

It’s the darkness after the lights, the quietness after the screams, the calm after the chaos. Like the end of a wild midsummer day, or that moment just after the last firework goes off when you’re left staring up into the sky at the fading smoke and everything is still and silent and remembering. It’s everything to Harry, and he waits for those moments like he waits for this stars to come out.

When he opens the door to the hotel room, Louis’ tackling him, light stubble scratchy against his neck where he’s pressing his smile to Harry’s skin. “We did it, Haz,” he’s saying, and it sounds like _yes_ and we made it and _it’s just us now._ Like: _finally, finally, finally._

“Wanna kiss you, Lou,” he says, and then he’s kissing him, and all the lights in all the cities are coalescing behind his eyelids, like the fireworks are inside of him now, flaring and shattering apart.

_This is what home feels like,_ he thinks. _This is what ‘welcome back’ and ‘it’s good to see you again’ and 'I missed you’ feel like._

It’s what Louis feels like, really.

“Hey, Haz, you feel like dancing?” He pulls away, looking up at Harry with those blue-grey eyes, eyelashes dark and sweeping. Of course Harry feels like dancing. He feels like doing anything with him—doing everything. He nods, and Louis reaches into his pocket and messes around with his phone for a bit, before choosing a Spotify playlist and tossing it onto the bed, quiet strains of Joni Mitchell spilling out into the silence. He’s still wearing the outfit he was wearing on stage earlier, black skinny jeans and a Stone Roses t-shirt, and Harry loves the way the white cotton drapes over his body. Reminds him of those Greek statues and the weird clingy clothes they’re wearing sometimes, all fluid and soft-looking. All beautiful. Louis reaches behind him and closes the door, clicking the light off as he does, and then pulls Harry into the room.

It’s mostly dark, except that the bathroom door is partly open and letting in a square of gold light. Louis’ face is directly in it, eyes twinkling and lips slightly parted, and he slips his arms around Harry’s neck, bringing him closer.

“Want to know something, Haz?” he whispers as Harry’s hands find his hips, as Harry presses his face into the space between his neck and shoulder, breathing in slow.

He nods, moving his head up and down the tiniest bit. “Okay.”

Louis kisses his cheek. “All romantics,“—and Harry’s smiling because Louis’ voice is matching with the lyrics in the song, only he’s talking rather than singing, talking over the music—"they all meet the same fate some day.” He kisses the corner of his eye, whispers, “Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café.”

Louis lets the music play on its own for a while, the words falling around them like snow, soft and dreamlike.

_You think you’re immune_

_Go look at your eyes they’re full of moon_

_You like roses and kisses and pretty men to tell you_

_All those pretty lies pretty lies_

_When you gonna realize they’re only pretty lies_

Louis kisses his forehead, and Harry feels himself being pulled closer, his hands slipping around to Louis’ back to hold him there. He doesn’t want to be a single millimeter away from Louis right now, just wants to be close to him, as close as possible, forever, for always.

Louis’ mouth is still on his forehead, warm.

“But can I tell you a secret?” he whispers, voice soft in the way it only gets with Harry. “They’re not lies, Haz.” He tucks a curl behind Harry’s ear. “They’re not lies at all.” He drags his lips across his forehead, leaves them at his temple. “You’re so beautiful. You’re the most beautiful thing in my life.” His lips press behind Harry’s ear, sending shivers down his body. “And I’m going to buy you flowers, _roses,_ and I’m going to kiss you and tell you how beautiful you are for the rest of your life, if you’ll let me.”

Harry thinks he hears himself whine, a high-pitched sort of sound that comes out strained. They’re standing in the middle of the room, faces shadowy in the half-dark, swaying back and forth slowly, languidly, and he feels a bit like he’s underwater, like he’s floating, all sleepy and soft and heavy. In the places where Louis’ skin touches his though, he feels buzzing, electric: Louis’ hands at the nape of his neck, his lips on his jaw, where his nose brushes lightly against his cheek. It’s such a juxtaposition, so much happening at once. He wants to cry a little.

“Christ, Lou,” he says, and his voice sounds like creaky stairs, sounds broken. “I really love you.”

Louis just laughs, and then he pulls back and he’s kissing him, laughing against his lips and licking into his mouth, and they’re just standing there in the dark and the square of orange and the blue moonlight slipping under the curtains and it’s everything Harry ever wanted when he was little. It’s everything he still wants now, and he knows it’s everything he’ll want for the rest of his life. Just this boy and this kind of night.

“Well you better,” Louis says. “Because you’re stuck with me. I mean what I said, yeah? For the rest of your life?”

Harry searches Louis’ eyes, and it’s one of those rare times where he can see right through him, where he isn’t trying to put on a brave front. But more than that, it’s one of those even rarer times where Louis actually looks vulnerable, like they’re back on the X-Factor and he’s still worried that the two of them aren’t a sure thing.

Harry’s pretty certain they were sure even then.

He nods, swaying with the music, pitching foreword slightly into Louis’s body. Joni Mitchell is singing about her old man now, about not needing a piece of paper from the city hall. Harry knows they don’t either, that even though he’d like one—he’d like a thousand—they don’t need one, never have and never will.

For the rest of his life.

“Will you marry me someday?” he asks Louis, and as soon as he does he knows it was the right thing to say, with the way Louis’s eyes crinkle at the edges and his voice comes out confident again.

“I’ll marry you tomorrow,” he says, all white teeth. “I’ll marry you every Tuesday, if you want.”

Harry grins. “Promise?”

“Every Tuesday,” Louis confirms, smile still just as bright as it was a moment ago. “Every Tuesday in the universe.”

“Even the ones we missed?” Harry asks, because Louis makes him ridiculous. He nuzzles into his favorite spot on Louis’ neck, just keeping him close. “Can we go back and get married on all of those too?”

Harry feels Louis’ chuckle more than he hears it, a soft rumbling against his chest. “'Course,” Louis says, low. “Of course, baby, anything. I’m gonna invent time travel for you just so we can go and get married on every Tuesday that there is. You want that, baby?” His hands are in Harry’s hair now and Harry’s almost gone. He’s tired and happy, and it’s the best feeling in the world, when Louis talks to him like this, when he touches him like this.

It really does feel like home, he thinks, and he’s got to be the luckiest person in the world to have found it already. To have found home.

He can’t say for sure, but he thinks some people probably look forever.

_*** * *** _

Later, after Louis turns the bathroom light off and there’s nothing left but shadows and silver-blue moonlight, Harry clutches at Louis’ hand as he moves inside him—as the fireworks go off in his head and the stars come out, the world spinning and spinning in that restless way that it does, unstoppable.

“Louis,” he whispers, after. “If I ever end up cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café, can you be the someone?”

Louis just pulls him closer with a laugh and says, in a voice that’s still a bit gravely,

“Baby, you couldn’t bore me if you tried.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading !  
> i mess around on tumblr too: [teknicolour](http://teknicolour.tumblr.com/) :)


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